A King's Ransom
by Space000Case
Summary: Sam Drake is dead broke. His lust for adventure and riches has led to years full of dead ends and disappointment. But when an old friend reemerges with a tempting offer, Sam is plunged into a globe-trotting adventure at the heart of a legendary mystery. This is all he ever hoped for. But in the end, what will be the cost?
1. Prologue

Prologue

* * *

 _"Ready my knights for battle. They will ride with their king once more._

 _I have lived through others for far too long. Lancelot carried my glory , and Guenevere, my guilt . Mordred bears my sins. My knights have fought my causes._

 _Now, my brother, I shall be... king."_

* * *

It was the perfect night for smuggling.

Rain, wind and cold. What began as a mid-afternoon drizzle had grown into a torrent by early evening. The onslaught of elements pushed every tourist, executive, and panhandler off the streets of the Central Business District, into the shelter of houses and bars. Not even the police were watching tonight, focused instead on a multi-car collision that had bottled up traffic on the freeway.

Meanwhile, a tall man in a black trenchcoat walked along the empty sidewalk, completely unnoticed.

He hunched his shoulders against the rain, musing to himself that few tools could be quite as useful to a criminal as a summer storm. Rain fell in drenching sheets, pounding furiously on rooftops, overflowing the gutters, and splashing heavily onto the cracked pavement. The man bowed his head low into his collar, avoiding the glow of streetlights and neon store signs as he moved on westward.

Once, as he rounded a dimly lit corner, a woman stepped out of a clothing store directly into his path, nearly colliding with him. The man slipped around her smoothly, keeping his head lowered. She never even noticed he was there.

He continued on without looking up. After walking five more blocks, he ducked into the side entrance of a tall, steel-framed building and let the door slam closed behind him. Just as he'd hoped, not a single person had seen him go by.

That was good, he thought. That would do just fine.

* * *

Seventy stories overhead, Kevin Needry sat alone in his office, waiting. He had chosen the place and time for this meeting, a privilege which he took as a significant vote of confidence. He'd made sure everything was in order, planned it all out weeks in advance.

In truth, his dealer didn't want to be bothered seeking out a location on his own. He'd forfeited that honor willingly. But Needry didn't know that, and no one was going to tell him.

By 8:00 p.m. the entire building was almost empty. It was a Tuesday, and everyone but the journalists on the twentieth floor had left hours ago. Outside, the storm redoubled its efforts.

Needry sat behind a black marble desk, fighting the urge to glance at his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. He wondered if he looked as anxious as he felt. Leaning back in his chair, he tried to arrange himself into an authoritative posture, with hands steepled in front of him and one leg crossed over his knee in a figure-four shape. He wore his suit unbuttoned, and he'd taken off his tie. The goal was an outward aspect both casual and businesslike, appropriate for the situation.

He waited, trying not to fidget.

This was only the third time he'd arranged to buy a black-market artifact, though probably not the last. Both times before he'd met with the same dealer, an older man with a mustache and short gray hair. Needry found the man obnoxious and lurid to the point of reproach, but he didn't want to hire anyone else to bring in his merchandise. Needry liked to keep things consistent when it came to illegal transactions. Better for business that way.

Unfortunately, consistency turned out to be too much to hope for. Tonight, someone new was coming up to the office. Needry had been assured that this new man had a sound reputation, that he would deliver the goods on time, and in person, as promised. They said he was a professional. Discrete, and reliable.

High praise, for a convict.

At 8:05 the door to his office opened. Needry raised his chin, squinting, as a tall man in a black coat poked his head into the room, looking around. Spying Needry, the man smiled.

He came in, but left the door open. Without saying a word, the man walked casually toward the desk, pulled off his dripping trench coat and dropped it over the back of a chair. Needry stared at him.

Sam smiled back.

He stood in place with arms relaxed at his sides. He didn't say anything. Didn't need to. He'd made sure to dress the part for this meeting, and as planned, his clothes were making the first impression.

The ensemble consisted of a safari-style shirt, cargo pants, a dark leather satchel, dusty work boots and three days of deliberately unshaven stubble on his cheeks. To cap off the effect, he'd even thought to stop the elevator five floors down, so that he could hike up the stairs and cultivate a layer of sweat on his brow and collarbone. All he needed now was a bullwhip and a brown fedora, and he would be the spitting image of every aspiring treasure hunter's personal fantasy.

Fortune and glory, et cetera, et cetera.

Truth be told, Sam felt like a complete moron in the getup. But he knew clients like Needry had certain...expectations. A dealer had to dress the part, safari shirt and all, or risk being pegged as a fraud. For some men, it wasn't enough just to buy contraband. They wanted the whole damn experience, and what kind of experience would it be if the actors walked on stage without their costumes?

So that morning Sam had taken himself to the thrift store and bought a pair of khaki - lord almighty, khaki - cargo pants, complete with side pockets and rear button flaps. He'd actually stolen the shirt, or rather, borrowed it, from his brother's closet. Where on earth Nathan had bought the thing, Sam didn't really care to know.

In any case, his costume was having the desired effect; Needry eyed him from head to toe, and hadn't yet spoken a word since he'd walked in. Sam expected that reaction, but after a while, he started to feel a bit uncomfortable. He knew clothing made the man, but he also didn't relish being ogled like a fish in a tank.

After a long minute, Needry finished looking him over and sat forward in his chair. He blinked several times as if to moisten his eyes.

"Did you bring it?" Needry said.

Straight to business? No mundane small talk or petty quips to warm up the engines? Sam didn't mind. He wanted to get this deal over with, and he was more than happy to cut to the chase. Still, a simple "hello" to start things off wouldn't hurt.

Managing to hide his annoyance, Sam inclined his head a fraction to the side as he reached into his bag. He took out a small plywood box and set it on the desk. It was roughly six inches long, unmarked and deliberately ordinary, like something a person might buy at a craft store to keep crayons in. Needry's eyes fixed upon it with sudden interest the moment it appeared.

Needry glanced up at Sam, and then back to the box. "That's it?"

"See for yourself."

Needry's jaw muscles twitched, but he hesitated only a moment. Reaching out, he set his fingertips on the lid of the box, arching his hand like a claw, and dragged the container slowly across the desk to him.

He opened the lid and carefully pushed aside the straw packing. Resting inside was a dark figurine made of black stone, carved into the crude shape of a tall man. The face was long, adorned with an elaborate beard, pointed nose and a thick black uni-brow. But the eyes were the main attraction. Unusually large and round, the lidless eyes gazed forward with wide, perfectly black pupils, giving the statue a perpetual look of shock. It was as if the sculptor had tried to capture the expression of a man the moment after he'd been kicked between the legs.

Honestly, Sam found the figure disturbing, and he couldn't imagine why anyone would want it. Then again, some people just had weird taste. Once, he'd heard about a man who boasted a collection of burnt food, which he charged people admission to see. Apparently, there really was a market for anything.

Needry stared at the statue for a moment, and then reverently lifted it out of the box with both hands. He held it up in the light, muttering something indistinct under his breath. Sam thought he looked almost like a catholic priest holding up the Eucharist at Sunday mass, and tried not to laugh.

Needry ignored him. He continued to gawk at the figure for a full minute, turning it over several times, inspecting every inch. "It's in remarkable condition," he said at last. "Where in the world did you come by something like this?"

That was a stupid question. Was it supposed to be an insult?

Sam couldn't remember exactly where he'd pinched the statue, but it hadn't just fallen out of the sky into his lap. Instead of the real answer, he settled for a vague deflection. "Oh, I just stumbled on it somewhere when I was traveling," he said. "You know how it is."

"Yes," Needry said, grinning. "You never know what you'll find out there." He was well-traveled himself, or liked to think so. He allowed himself four vacations a year, most of them to Europe. Recently he had even reached a first-name basis with his travel agent.

"It's Egyptian, isn't it?"

"Mesopotamian," Sam corrected. "Fun Fact: it's actually a representation of a temple priest. The eyes are meant to be symbolic of omniscience. That's why they're so big and...unsettling."

"Fascinating." Needry looked down at the figure's face, as if to meet its unswerving gaze. After a moment he sighed, and then carefully set the statue down on his desk. He reached for his breast pocket. "I'll just need to verify..."

Sam had expected this. He wasn't insulted, and he wasn't worried; the statue was actually genuine, though he doubted this buyer could spot a fraud in any case. He took the question as a sign that Needry was feeling comfortable, maybe even excited. That was good.

Sam hoped wouldn't need to push too hard to make this sale. Right now, the buyer was in love with that odd little statue. At this moment, Needry was probably envisioning the spot where he'd put it, right next to his golf trophies on the mantel, or maybe on a shelf in his pool room. But just like a bad relationship, the initial thrill was already starting to fade. He'd start thinking about the money. He'd start thinking the merchandise was worth less than the price he'd agreed to pay for it. Too much thinking was bad.

Time to move things along.

"Go ahead," Sam said.

Needry gave a cursory smile as he removed a jeweler's lens from his breast pocket. Sam almost snorted when he saw it, but stopped himself. He noticed right away that the lens was unmarked and polished to a shine. Brand new. Needry had probably bought it just for this meeting. Sam wondered if the grubby little man even knew which end to put over his eye, or if he'd needed to look that information up online.

Needry was trying to send a message by bringing out that lens, trying to establish superiority. Sam decided it was time to send a message of his own. While Needry set to examining the figure in earnest, Sam took out a cigarette and clamped it between his lips. He took his time, reveling in the fact that his buyer wasn't paying him the slightest bit of attention.

He flicked his lighter open and at the sound Needry looked up. His face twisted with disgust as Sam lighted his cigarette, and took a long, contented drag.

This was a calculated risk. Needry was known to detest the smell of nicotine, and smoking in his presence was bound to have an effect on him. Sam could see the situation going one of two ways: either the stench would make the man so uncomfortable that he would rush through the negotiations and buy the figurine at full price, or he would call the whole thing off and throw Sam out of his office on the spot.

In any case, the time for dawdling was over.

Sam put his lighter away and hoped his luck would hold.

Needry stared at him. He opened his mouth, but then stopped, and slowly shut it again without speaking.

"So?" Sam said. "What do you think? Looks good, right?"

"I..." he trailed off, watching Sam exhale a cloud of smoke from between his teeth. He swallowed, composing himself. "The condition is excellent. But..."

"But?"

"It's just...Usually, artifacts this old suffer a bit more...damage. I'm sure you know what I mean. These sorts of sculptures are rarely intact."

Sam shrugged. "I mean, if you want it damaged, I can do that for you. No extra charge." He laughed, but Needry didn't even smile.

"What I mean is, I would need more time to examine it before I make a decision."

"I see," Sam said. "Look, I appreciate you trying to be nice. But we're both grown-ups here. Just say it. You think I brought you a fake."

"Well..."

"I get it. I'm not your usual man, but come on. Look at that thing. Does it really look fake to you?"

Needry stared down at the figure in his hands, not meeting Sam's eyes. "I can't say. I would need more time to look it over," he repeated.

Nodding, Sam pursed his lips so that his cigarette pointed up toward the ceiling at a dramatic angle. He took a deep breath in, and then out before he spoke again.

"Well. Time is something we all want more of, isn't it?"

Needry didn't say anything. He licked his lips while he contemplated his options.

Time for another prod. Sam leaned over the desk, and reaching out his hand, gently took the figure from Needry's grasp. Surprisingly, he gave it up without resistance.

"Unfortunately," Sam said, "You're not the only person to express interest in this...exquisite item. Being that you're a friend of a friend, I took pains to come to you first. But if you're having second thoughts..."

"I didn't say that."

Sam pinched his cigarette between thumb and forefinger and then exhaled, enjoying the grimace on Needry's face as the scent engulfed him.

For a moment they stayed that way, silently regarding each other. The thought passed through Sam's mind that he might have gone too far, that he was about to be turned down flat after all his trouble. He doubted it. Needry was eyeing the black figurine as if he was hoping it would come to life and spring back into his hands.

"I'll give you half now," he said finally, "and half after I authenticate it."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Full price, up front. This isn't a flea market, you know."

Another long stretch of silence. Sam looked down at the statue thoughtfully, staring into it's huge, unnerving eyes.

At last Needry sighed. He turned away toward the other side of his desk and flipped open the leather case on his cell phone. He tapped at the screen, bringing it to life, and then quietly touched a few keys. He pressed his lips together as he worked, frowning. When he was done he closed the phone case and looked up.

Three seconds later Sam's own phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, reading a notification that said forty thousand dollars had just transferred into his bank account. Sender anonymous.

Usually, this was the part of the deal Sam liked best. The moment when money changed hands, or specifically, the moment when money left someone else's hands into his own. But somehow there was no kick this time. He almost felt disappointed.

Gone were the days of trading merchandise for bags of cash or gold. It was simpler this way. Safer.

Still...

Sam smiled and dropped the phone back into his pocket. With his other hand, he placed the figurine on the desk and then twisted it around to face its new owner.

"Congratulations," he said. "I'm sure it'll look fantastic on the mantelpiece."

* * *

Notes: So this is an updated version of the proglogue, not a new chapter. I promise not to fiddle with it anymore after this, both for your sanity and mine.

Hope you are enjoying the story so far! Don't forget to kindly leave a comment if you like what you see. Or leave a comment if you don't. Anything is appreciated.

See you next time!


	2. Chapter 1 - An Old Friend

**Chapter One - An Old Friend**

* * *

"Honey, I'm home," Sam called out into the empty house.

As expected, his voice echoed down the hall and met complete silence. No one was there to answer.

If he hadn't been so damn tired, Sam might have laughed at his own wit. As it was, he felt more inclined to lie down on the doorstep, tuck his duffle bag under his head, and sleep for a straight week.

Dealing with the likes of Kevin Needry had left him feeling worn to the bone. Compounding the problem, Sam knew most of the profits from that night's sale would be gone before the end of the week. He'd spent the long, weary cab ride staring out the window, running calculations through his head. Debts, payouts and promised bribes would take all but a pittance of Needry's forty grand. Sam guessed he would be left with a few hundred dollars, if he was lucky.

It's a pirate's life for me, he thought grimly.

Sighing, Sam stepped through the door of his brother's suburban townhouse and tossed his spare key onto the end table. It collided with a bronze statue of Shiva in meditation, striking her on the chest before clattering neatly into her lap. Sam was momentarily amused by the coincidence, but then the small smile on his lips faded. He took one step toward the end table, picked up the key and returned it to his coat pocket. The memory of his brother's voice flashed into his mind, unbidden.

"This way you can come by anytime. As often as you want," Nathan had said. He had held the spare out to Sam across the kitchen table, waiting for him to accept it. Eventually, he did.

"Just don't be afraid to use it."

How long ago had that been? Six months? Eight? Sam had a brief memory of a Christmas wreath hanging on the wall behind Nathan's back, a half-finished cocktail of eggnog and rum sitting in front of him on the table.

It was August now.

Sam wondered if he should call, right now, while he still had the energy. He got his phone out of his pocket and turned it on. Turned it off. Put it away.

He turned and went back to the door, still sitting open from when he'd come in, and kicked it closed.

He already knew how that phone call would go. He didn't need the guilt. Not after today.

Sam turned the lock, glancing over his shoulder at a picture of Nathan and his wife, Elena, standing on a sugar-white beach, posing with their arms around each other. He'd seen the photograph a dozen times, but it still never failed to astonish him. His own brother, married. Paying bills, getting up for work on Monday mornings like the average workaday schmuck...

But he was happy. At least there was that.

Sam made a mental promise to come back here once he had enough money set aside. He'd bring beer, and not the cheap stuff. The good kind. But before he even finished the thought he knew he'd never see it through.

He tried to shake the seasick feeling churning in his gut, but it was no use. He always felt this way when he came to his brother's house, and it didn't even matter that Nathan wasn't here. He was starting to wish he'd sprung for a cheap hotel room after all. At least there he could use the shower for more than ten minutes without feeling like he ought to chip in on the water bill.

After shrugging off his coat and hanging it up, Sam went straight upstairs. He was itching to put on some normal clothes, and hoped the change would lift his mood. He had the gaudy safari shirt unbuttoned and halfway off before he even got to his brother's closet. The cargo pants dropped soon after.

Sam dumped his duffle bag on the floor, and within seconds he'd traded his costume for a gray crew neck and pair of loose fitting jeans. Already he felt a little bit better.

Next, he took the safari shirt and started to hang it up in the very back of the closet, where it might go unnoticed for a few years. He hoped Nathan hadn't tried looking for it over the last few months. The shirt had come in handy on more than one job, but Sam was glad to be putting it back where it belonged.

He stood in the closet, humming to himself, trying to rub out a food stain on the collar , when suddenly he stopped, struck by a disturbing thought.

He'd smoked in this shirt.

Sam groaned and hastily sniffed one of the sleeves. It was useless; his own yellow-stained fingertips reeked of nicotine. He couldn't even smell cigarette smoke on himself anymore, let alone catch a residual odor on his clothes.

Maybe Nathan wouldn't notice. Maybe by the time he and Elena got back from their vacation, the scent would have faded completely away. If not, maybe they'd just assume they'd caught a whiff of some kind of strange, smoky body odor and let the whole thing go.

Not a chance. Sam knew Elena would pick up the smell like a bloodhound, and the two of them would know exactly who to blame. Any hope of just hanging the shirt up and walking away flew right out the window.

Maybe he could just toss it out and buy a new one. But with what money? A convincing replica could cost at least twenty bucks. Even that much was beyond him at the moment. No, he'd have to try to rinse out the smell.

Sam took the shirt across the hall to the washing machine and tossed it inside. He threw in a generous scoop of unscented laundry detergent, and then slammed the door closed. When he did, a stack of bowls on top of the machine rattled precariously, threatening to topple over onto the floor.

Sam wrinkled his nose at the dishes. There was a peculiar stink coming off of them, a sweetly rotten stench.

God, how did Nathan live like this?

Sam was no neat freak himself, but at least he cleaned out his dirty bowls before they started growing mold. Even as a kid Nathan had been messy, but it seemed his habits had grown worse since he settled down. Elena was no help either; she was about as tidy as a typical college freshman. Sam just couldn't understand it. Why own all this stuff if you were just going to leave it lying around, collecting dust and god knows what else?

Complacency bares itself in many ways, he thought.

After starting the wash, Sam picked up the bowls to take to the kitchen. On the way, he found more dishes: two coffee mugs, a plate with a half-eaten sandwich, a handful of flatware, and a wine glass that had been left in the downstairs bathroom. He dumped everything into the sink and turned on the water. A squirt of soap, a brisk scrub with the sponge, a quick rinse. There. Nobody could say he wasn't helpful.

He dried his hands with a dishrag and leaned back against the counter. He ran a hand over his face, eyes stinging and heavy with weariness. He knew he should try to clean himself up before he crashed on the couch, but right at that moment he couldn't convince himself to move. Besides, he didn't really want to look at his own pallid, unshaven face in the mirror.

Through the back porch door Sam could see the rain still falling, pounding sideways into the glass.

He turned and looked around at the house, wondering what he should do. Usually when he came to visit he spent the duration sitting on the couch, eating chips and drinking beer. As usual, Nathan would start retelling some outrageous story from his youth, Sam would join in and correct some minor details, and Elena would sit back and stare at them in stark, open-mouthed disbelief. The three of them could talk like that for hours, even late into the night. For all the awkwardness that came with those visits, Sam had to admit he always had a good time.

He smiled to himself, lingering on an amusing memory. He thought again about making time for a real visit, and his heart sank. Nathan invited him over for every holiday and event, but Sam always had his excuses. Sometimes, those excuses were even true.

Tonight the house was quiet. The only sound was the ticking clock and the soft patter of rain on the window. Sam felt suddenly out of place, standing in the kitchen by himself. An odd, prickly sensation struck him out of nowhere, a sense of displacement, and something almost like disapproval.

This room, this house, felt unfamiliar without Nathan around. Without Nathan, Sam couldn't help thinking he didn't belong here.

All at once he wanted to turn on the television, just so he could hear a voice. Most of the time he disliked watching TV, but he'd take anything to break up the silence. He went to the living room and started searching around on the couch for the remote.

Just then someone knocked on the door.

Sam froze, and waited. Had he really heard that, or was it his imagination? What if it was a neighbor? Doubtful, at this hour and with the rain outside. What if it was the police? Had someone seen the lights on in the house and gotten suspicious? Maybe he should slip out the back door before -

A moment later, the knock came again. Louder now, more insistent. Whoever it was, they knew someone was home, and they weren't giving up.

"Uh...coming," Sam yelled. "But I should warn you, I'm not decent."

He went to the foyer and opened the door.

Standing on the porch was a tall, barrel-chested man in a knee-length tan rain coat. He had slicked-back gray hair, a prominent mustache, and half of a lit cigar sticking out of the corner of his mouth. When he saw Sam his eyes widened briefly. And then he laughed.

"Well, I'll be goddamned," the man said. "Think of the devil, and the devil is here."

"Victor," Sam said. "What a nice surprise."

For once, he actually meant it. There had been a time, not long ago, when Sam would have taken one look at Victor Sullivan and slammed the door in his face. These days, the man was the closest thing Sam had to a partner in crime, now that Nathan had taken up blue-collar life. Even so, for Sully to literally come knocking at the door, like some kind of omen from the gods, was a bit of a shock.

"It's a surprise, but I sure as hell don't know if it's a nice one," Sully said. He took the cigar out of his mouth and looked Sam up and down. "Well are you gonna invite me in, or do I have to stand out here until I catch my death?"

Sam stepped back and waved him inside.

"Thank you kindly," Sully said. He walked into the house, tossing the remains of his cigar out into the rain.

"I hate to tell you this," Sam said, locking the door, "but Nathan isn't here."

"I know."

Sam frowned. "So...what's the occasion?"

"Believe it or not, I was looking for you," Sully said. He unbuttoned his coat with one hand, gesturing with the other. "Got wind that you were doing some business in the city, and thought you might still be around."

"You're looking for me? Should I be flattered or worried?"

"Both, maybe. I've been trying to call you for two straight days," Sully said. "How come you never answer your goddamn phone?"

Sam shrugged. "It's not my fault. The stupid battery's always dead."

"Can't you charge it?"

"Well, sure," he said. "But whoever heard of charging a phone anyway?"

Sully made a disgusted noise as he kicked off his boots. "Welcome to the twenty-first century, kid. Everything's got a damn power cord sticking out of it these days, even the cigarettes."

Sam laughed, genuinely amused for the first time that day. As if in gratitude, he took his friend's coat and hung it up on a peg next to his own. "Anyway, how'd you know where I was? You just take a lucky guess or something?"

"I called your brother," Sully answered, as if it were obvious. "He said he hasn't seen you in months, but he'd heard you were in the city and he guessed that you'd be too cheap to pay for your own hotel room. Said you'd probably break into his house and sleep on the couch." He smirked, but apparently didn't feel the need say more.

Sam scratched the back of his neck, looking defensive. "For your information, I didn't break in. I have a key."

"Do you now? You've really come up in the world, haven't you?"

Sam scoffed, taking the jab. "You always know just what to say to make me feel better, Victor."

Sully gave him a bemused grin. He smoothed down his hair and moved toward the living room, looking around at the pictures on the walls. "Nice place Nate's got here," he said. "Not really what I was expecting though."

Sam followed him, watching as Sully took in the sights.

"What exactly were you expecting?"

"Hell, I don't know. Guess I always pictured him living in a big, dusty castle on a cliff or something like that."

Sam snickered. He had to admit, the idea seemed fitting in an odd way. "You want something to drink?" he asked, moving toward the fridge. Hopefully, his brother had left it fully stocked.

"I'll drink 'em if you got 'em."

Sam pulled two beers from the bottom shelf, making a mental note to buy more before he left town. Thankfully, Nathan seemed to prefer the cheap stuff. He opened both bottles and handed one to Sully.

"So," Sully said, "How long you been in the city?"

"Just flew in this morning."

"Nice flight?"

"It was alright."

He nodded and sipped his drink. "How's business?"

Sam eyed him, unsure how to answer. "Come on, Victor. You know I came here to sell that stone priest statue to Kevin Needry. You set up the meeting yourself, remember?"

"Did I?" Sully grunted. "Well, did he buy...whatever it was?"

"Full price."

"Hey, there ya go. I always believed in you, kid," he said dully.

Sam sneered. "I can see why you didn't want to deal with him yourself. The guy's a real prick."

"Aren't they all?" Sully said. "But hey, somebody's got to pay the bills. Dealing with pricks is part of the job."

Sam knew he was right. Nearly all of his sales for the last three months had been with rich business executives like Needry, and all his deals for the next month would be too. Rich people were constantly looking for exotic decorations to fill up their bachelor pads and offices. It was really kind of funny, in an irritating sort of way. All those toothless sharks, insulated in their own sterile, microscopic little worlds, paying someone to smuggle exotic valuables right to their door. Sometimes, Sam wondered if he weren't just a kind of glorified delivery boy, minus the tips.

"He tried to haggle with me," Sam said.

"Then you should have doubled the price. That's what I would've done," Sully said. "Shown him who he's dealing with."

Sam laughed at that. Sully had always favored the old-school approach to selling, through his tough-as-nails attitude had cost him more than one client in recent years. People just didn't like being told what to do, even when they were dealing with criminals.

"Anyway, it all worked out," Sam said. He moved to the couch and flopped down, promptly setting his feet up on the coffee table. "You should have seen the getup I had on. I looked like Crocodile Dundee, if he were more handsome."

"Ah, the things we do for our customers," Sully said, nodding thoughtfully. "Did I ever tell you about the time I pretended to be a Russian mobster for three weeks? That was one helluva job. Took me a month just to get the accent down, but it was worth it. Biggest payout in years."

Sam decided not to say that he had, in fact, heard that story before. Several times. But Sully didn't go on like he usually would. He went quiet, glancing curiously around the room once more before he went to join Sam on the couch.

He lowered himself down stiffly, shifting a bit to get comfortable. He winced as he leaned back into the cushions. "Goddamn rain always makes by back ache. Take my advice, don't ever get old."

"Duly noted," Sam scoffed. He wouldn't admit it, but he knew exactly what Sully was describing. In the last few years he'd noticed a dull pain spread through his knees and elbows, just before a storm or a cold snap. Most of the time, he just chalked it up to a long flight or a bad mattress, swallowed a couple of ibuprofen and went about his business. The consistency of the problem was what worried him.

Sully had fallen silent again. He sat there, rubbing his knee and staring at the blank television screen, lost in thought. Sam looked at him, and felt his earlier cheerfulness start to fade.

"So," Sam said at last. "Why don't we just cut to the chase, huh? You got a job for me, Victor?"

"What?" Sully said, feigning injury. "I can't just come by for a visit? There's always gotta be a job?"

"Well...yeah," he replied. "So what is it?"

Sully sighed. "Don't worry, I'm gonna tell you." He draped an arm over the back of the couch and gazed at his half-empty beer. "I just have to figure out where to start."

* * *

Notes: Thank you all for reading _A King's Ransom,_ I hope you are enjoying the story so far! For the sake of readability, I've divided the chapters into approximately 3,000-word segments, which I feel is a pretty decent length for a fanfiction chapter.

Part 2 will release next Wednesday evening, and that goes for all further chapters as well: Release on Wednesday between 6-8pm.

 **Questions, comments, reactions, reviews etc. are all greatly appreciated.** If you like the story, **please** leave a short comment. ****If you would like to swap stories please send me a private message and don't ask in the review. I am open to reading other stories. In fact, I like reading other works leaving well thought out reviews. I'll get back to you as soon as I have time.*****

Thanks again! See you next week!


	3. Chapter 1 - Pt2

Chapter One - Part 2

* * *

After a long moment, Sully finally looked up. "Does the name Edwin Carrow ring any bells for you?"

"Nope, not a one."

"I'm not surprised," Sully said. "He retired more than twenty years ago. What a goddamn shame that was. Back in my day, Carrow was the authority on early European artifacts, not to mention the best damn broker in the business. I swear that man could sell anything for a profit. Artifacts, weapons…bags of horseshit. You name it."

"Sounds like a real professional," Sam said. "Were you two friends or something?"

"Oh yeah, we were partners for years. You're not gonna believe this, but Carrow was actually the one who got Katherine Marlowe to hire me, back when I was a younger man."

"No shit?"

"It's true," Sully insisted. He took a drink and wiped his mouth with the back of one hand, smiling. "Those were the days. Me and Edwin ran jobs year round. We'd make a pile of cash and then burn it all up in one or two nights. Wish I'd had the sense to hold onto some of that money. Would have saved me a lot of trouble down the road," he shrugged. "But at least we had a good time."

"Well, what happened?" Sam asked. "Carrow just decided to quit?"

"To put it bluntly, yeah, that's exactly what happened. He didn't give a reason either, not to me, or anyone else," Sully said. He finished off his beer in one gulp, grimacing at the taste. "He liquidated all his assets, cut ties with his contacts, and disappeared. As far as I know no one's heard from him since."

"I see," Sam mused. "So, let me guess. All of a sudden he just calls you up out of the blue?"

"Actually he sent me an email," Sully said, baffled. "Don't ask me how he got ahold of my address. I've never even used the damn thing but one or two times. Certainly not to talk to a contact."

"An e-mail, huh?" Sam muttered. "Not exactly the most open line of communication. How do you even know who you're talking to?"

Sully's voice lowered, losing some of its usual bluster. "I don't. That's the problem," he said. "Carrow…or whoever it is, told me that he's running some kind of project I might be interested in. He's doing an excavation off the coast of Spain, digging up ruins or something. Said he could use an expert opinion."

"So he contacts you of all people?" Sam scoffed.

Sully glared. "Can't you go five seconds without being a wiseass?"

"Sorry, go ahead. I'm listening, promise." Sam held up in hand in a gesture of sincerity.

Sully conceded and cleared his throat dramatically. "Anyway, I tried to get Carrow to talk to me on the phone, but he refused. Instead, he sent me a bunch of specs on the job: photographs, documents, that kind of thing."

"But no proof of his identity?"

"Well…no. Not really."

"Did you try tracing the email address?"

"Yeah, didn't get much other than an area code for some spot in Boston. Not even the good part of town either."

Sam settled back into the couch, twisting to make himself more comfortable. "You know how sketchy that all sounds, right?"

"Of course, I wasn't born yesterday," Sully snapped. "But I figure Carrow's got his reasons for being secretive. Guy's probably just trying to protect himself, and I don't blame him. Take it from me, if you stay in this business long enough you'll find out you make more enemies than friends."

"I can certainly attest to that." Sam didn't mention that most of his enemies had already wound up dead, in various unusual ways, through no fault of his own. Karma's a stone cold bitch, indeed. "So, what's this incredible job he's offering you?"

Sully paused. The expression that came over his face in that moment put a chill into Sam's blood. He'd seen that look before. It was the half-smile and hooded eyes of a man with about to lay down a full hand of aces with all his chips on the table.

"I've gotta tell you, Sam," Sully said, "this one looks good. Maybe too good to pass up."

Sam couldn't suppress a derisive snort. "Oh, really? So let me get this straight. Some guy you haven't seen or heard from in decades suddenly and inexplicably reappears, and he's got this job offer, which he sends to you through an email. Sure, definitely sounds too good to pass up."

"Hey," Sully chuckled, "no guts, no glory, right?"

"If you say so."

"Here, why don't you see for yourself, huh?" Sully reached into his trouser pocket and took out a wad of folded papers, roughly five sheets thick. He slapped the packet onto the table with a haughty flick of his wrist. "Take a look at that."

Sam eyed the papers without moving. Sully waved an impatient hand and Sam sighed, reached out and picked up the packet. "What is it?" he said.

"Photographs from the excavation Carrow's been working on. The one in Spain. Just look at it, will you? He's dragging more than pebbles out of the water, that's for damn sure."

He was right. Sam unfolded the papers and let out a low whistle. On the very first page was a photograph of a large, square slab of rock, laid out on a white tarp. An intricate pattern stood out through gaps in the mask of dried algae, weaving a delicate, dizzying pattern across the surface of the stone. Surprisingly, the design didn't look painted-on. From what Sam could tell, the network of looping arches and radiating circles had been carved into the rock by a deliberate, artistic hand.

"Are these petroglyphs?" Sam asked.

"Yep," Sully said, sounding triumphant. "And they're not just some caveman scribbles either. Those are high-quality etchings, real artsy-fartsy stuff."

"I can see that…" Sam's voice trailed. He squinted at the picture, trying to make out the details through the blur. He flipped through the other pages and found more photographs of other large, square stones with identical marks.

"Pretty impressive, for a bunch of rocks," Sam murmured. "You said Carrow found these in Spain?"

"That's what he said."

"Huh," Sam spread all five pages out on the table in front of him, looking at each in turn. "It's just...these patterns don't look Spanish. Look at the lines overlapping and twisting around. It's almost like a Celtic knot or a Celtic cross, you know?"

Sully gave a disinterested shrug. "I'm not the expert. You said so yourself."

"Don't get me wrong, they're beautiful. Probably worth a pretty penny too," Sam smiled, trying to estimate what a huge, ancient slab of etched rock might go for on the market. At least a few hundred thousand each, probably more. And Carrow had already found half a dozen of them.

"Well, if you like that," Sully said, breaking into Sam's thoughts, "I think you're gonna love this."

He held out a single sheet of glossy photo paper, that impish half-smile still turning the corner of his mouth. Sam took it, eyes widening.

It was a picture of a man, white-haired with a large nose, holding the most beautiful sword Sam had ever seen. Every inch, from the hourglass pummel to the tapered point, was wrapped in marbled threads of gold and silver. Even the blade itself, four feet of polished, glittering steel, was inlaid with a myriad of golden flecks, like a constellation sweeping across the night sky.

"Hello gorgeous," Sam breathed.

"I knew you'd appreciate that," Sully said.

"Who wouldn't?"

"Know anything about it?"

"Uh…" Sam scrutinized the picture hastily, contemplating. "It's defiantly European, judging by the cross guard. Pre-Roman era? Maybe? Hell, I don't know. Swords aren't really a specialty of mine."

"Me neither," Sully said. " _Stealing_ swords, now that's a different story."

Sam went back to eyeing the picture. "I-I think there's something carved here, on the pummel. Some kind of phrase, but I can't make it out," he grunted in frustration. "You got any more pictures of this thing?"

"Just the one," Sully shook his head.

With difficulty, Sam tore his eyes away from the bewildering pattern of gold and gems on the sword and made himself focus on the man in the picture. "Is that Carrow?"

Sully nodded. "Looks a hell of a lot older than I remember. But I'm not really one to talk, am I?"

Carrow didn't appear the way Sam had pictured him. Instead of a slick, globe-trotting mogul, his open face and puff of white hair gave him the look of a mad scientist stereotype. Round eyes and crooked teeth. Screwy was the first word to come to mind.

"Just think about it," Sully cut in. "What do you think a sword like that is worth? A hundred million? Hell, to the right buyer, we could be talking two, maybe even three."

"Maybe," Sam said, his voice shaking a little. Three hundred million. For one sword. Even after decades of treasure hunting, it was still hard to fully wrap his mind around sums that stupidly large.

"Where'd he find it?" Sam asked.

"Same place he found the rocks, apparently."

Sam's expression of wonder quickly turned to scorn. "Wait, you're telling me Carrow dragged this up from the bottom of the ocean? You've got to be kidding."

"What?" Sully protested.

"Victor, this sword is in perfect condition. Do you really think it's been soaking in salt water for the last few centuries?"

"I'm just telling you what Carrow told me," Sully replied defensively. "Maybe he polished it up or something. The point is, there could be more. Carrow thinks there might be a whole tomb full of swords and gold and who knows what else out there."

At that, the little twinge of doubt which had been smoldering in the back of Sam's mind suddenly came alight. He fell silent, gazing at the papers laid out before him. This whole night was beginning to feel downright surreal, like some kind of backward dream. Maybe it was just his exhaustion fogging up his brain, or something more ominous. Sam began to chuckle. The glossy photograph fell from his hands as if it were no more than a scrap of take-away wrapper. Sully watched him, his frown deepening.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. It's not funny at all, really." Sam shook his head, grinning. "Don't you see what this is? All of this," he swept a hand over the pile of photographs. "It's bait. And you're biting, hook, and sinker."

Sully rolled his eyes. "Oh, don't start."

"Well, I'm right. You know I'm right." Agitated, Sam sat forward on the couch. "Some guy you haven't talked to, or even seen in twenty years contacts you out of the blue and promises you a cut of this fantastic treasure he's found? You can't actually believe that, can you?"

"Listen," Sully's voice went hard. "I know what it sounds like. But I've taken jobs on a hell of a lot less than this."

"And how'd that work out for you, huh?"

Sully let out a frustrated sigh. "I'm not saying you're wrong, okay? I've got my doubts too. That's why I got Carrow to agree to meet with me, in person, so we can talk over all of this face to face."

"Did he actually say he'd do it?"

"Surprisingly, yes. He wants me to meet him in Boston in two days. He's already set the location and everything."

Sam was far from satisfied with that answer. He sat, rolling his beer bottle between his hands, thinking over what he'd heard. "It'd be a whole lot better if he'd let you pick the spot yourself."

Sullivan nodded. "Well, nothing for it now. I already told him I'd be there. And I'd feel a whole lot better about the whole thing if I had someone else along to watch my back."

Sam didn't say anything. He could almost feel Sully's eyes drilling into the side of his head.

"I know the circumstances aren't…ideal," Sully went on. "But it's about more than the treasure, you know? That man in the picture was my friend, once. Maybe I haven't seen him in years, but we were partners. And I think he might really need my help."

Sam turned to him, incredulous. "Why do say that?"

Sully didn't answer right away. He looked toward the other side of the room, one hand rubbing his mustache, the other mindlessly rubbing his knee. "I...did some digging around after Carrow first contacted me. Didn't find much but…" he trailed off uncertainly.

"What?"

"I came across a police report," Sully confessed. "It was about an investigation in northern Spain, not very far from Carrow's excavation site. Just a few miles south, in fact. Apparently some of the locals stumbled on something... a little disconcerting on a beach out there."

Sam closed his eyes, bracing. "Such as…?"

"A...body," Sully said in a flat voice. He shifted uncomfortably. "A man. Shot through the head."

Sam slowly ran a palm over his face, head drooping. "Shit," he whispered.

Sully sniffed. "Look, I know what you're thinking. It's bad. Maybe it's got nothing to do with Carrow, but knowing him… I'm just worried he's gotten himself in some real trouble. If that's the case, I can't just sit here on my hands and do nothing."

"Sure you can," Sam said. "This is his project. His treasure, his fight. It's not your problem."

"Not my problem?" Sully's face twisted in disgust. "Is that what Nate said when you asked him for help? Sorry, but it's not my problem?"

Sam opened his mouth, ready to fire off a searing retort. He bit it back, clenching his teeth closed, sucking in a long, hissing breath as he turned away.

"Hey, I didn't mean -" Sully began.

"You know what? I'm, uh… gonna go out for a smoke." Sam got up from the couch, eager to walk away before he said something he'd regret. Without looking back he walked straight toward the back door, leaving Sully alone in the living room.

It was still raining. Slower now, but constant. Sam stepped outside, ignoring the drizzle, and immediately a bit of the tension clamping on his head eased away. He edged under the eve of the roof, safe from most of the downpour, and quietly lit up. A few chilling raindrops managed to dodge the roof and smack into his face and arms, making shivers of gooseflesh rise on his skin.

Behind him, he could see Sully's shadow moving through the living room, into the kitchen, and back again. A part of Sam's mind was screaming at him, desperate for him to turn around and go right back inside. Back to Sullivan. Back to those photographs. Three hundred million dollars, and more where that came from. His mind spun at the thought. What was he doing out here? The chance of a lifetime was right behind that glass door, and here he was standing outside in the rain like the epitome of a complete idiot.

Sam shivered, but he didn't move. It took more strength than he was willing to admit just to remain where he was.

Sullivan didn't know what he was asking. Or maybe he did, and he just didn't care. Sam told himself he wasn't ready to play this game all over again, not when he was still aching from the last go around. These were the same lines, the same promises he'd heard from Sully one year ago. Back then, it was some other job, some other treasure. It had been too good to pass up.

One month later, Sam found himself lying in a ditch, dazed, beaten and penniless. His only consolation was waking up to see Victor lying in the dirt next to him.

He grimaced at the memory, as if the thought itself were painful. Even now he could almost taste the grit in his mouth, the blood on his tongue.

What a mess.

He smoked his cigarette to the filter and tossed it out. After a moment of contemplation, he lit a second.

It was then that he heard the back door roll open. Sully came outside quietly, with a touch of hesitation, but Sam didn't turn around.

"Thought you might want to finish this," Sully said. He held out the half-empty beer bottle Sam had left on the coffee table.

"Thanks." Sam took it. Rather than meeting Sully's eyes, he stared out at Nathan's overgrown back yard, walled in by a rotting picket fence and a line of shaggy bushes. Who would ever want to look at such a miserable sight, day after day?

Sure beats a concrete cell, though, he reminded himself. He and Sully stood, wrapped in a bubble of awkward silence, watching rainwater gush from the drainpipe into the grass. Sam realized with a sinking feeling that he was nearing the end of his second cigarette.

At last, Sully broke the silence.

"Listen, Sam…" he started, and broke off. For once, he actually seemed at a loss for words. "I-I…Ah, hell. What do you want, an apology? Well, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that you've been down on your luck for so long. And before you say it, I'll admit that what happened in Portugal was partially my fault."

Sam gave him a hard, sideways glance.

"Alright, so it was mostly my fault," Sully admitted. "But I can't read the goddamn future. How was I supposed to know everything would go belly up?"

"Because it always does," Sam said. "But if you had just stuck to the plan, maybe we could've gotten out of there with more than just the clothes on our backs."

Sully let out a loud scoff. "The plan? The plan went all to hell the minute those goons showed up with guns."

"I was handling it," Sam retorted. "Besides, no one told you to steal their car."

"I always steal the car, it's what I do. You shoot, I drive. That's how it works."

"No," Sam said, voice lowering. "That's how it works when you're working with Nathan. Maybe you didn't notice, but I'm not my brother. If you're looking for someone to blindly follow you to hell and back, you've got the wrong Drake."

Sully looked at him, mouth pressed into a stern line. After a second he dropped his gaze to the ground. "Listen kid. I'm not looking for a hired gun here. I need someone I can trust on this one," he said. "Besides, I figure we both deserve a shot at making some real cash. I think this job is exactly what both of us need to get back on our feet."

"I don't know, Victor," Sam said. "It's not that easy for me. I think I'd be better off just keeping my head down. I've got three more clients to see this week, and frankly, I need those sales. I can't just drop everything on a dime to run off with you."

"Oh please. Spare me the conscientious bullshit," Sully said. "You really want to spend the rest of your life kowtowing to the likes of Kevin Needry? You'll never get anything but petty cash from those jobs."

"It's not all about the money, Victor," Sam insisted.

"It's not?" Sully said in disbelief. "What the hell else is there?"

"How about a reputation?" Sam demanded. He stood back, looking his friend in the eye. "What about building a network? What about contacts? I used to have all that, fifteen years ago. Maybe it slipped your mind that I spent nearly two decades sitting on my ass in a jail cell. Sure, I made it out, but now what have I got? I can't get hired for the decent jobs, and half my old contacts don't even remember who I am. I feel like I'm starting off at square one here."

"Which is exactly why you need a big break," Sully said. "And that's what I'm offering you. Are you really just gonna turn me down?"

"Well, you know the saying," Sam said. "Fool me twice."

Sully shook his head, heaving a great, weary sigh. The guilty look on his face only made Sam even more irritated than before. He turned away, shoulders sagging, and let his back fall against the brick wall of the house.

"All I'm saying," Sam said, "is that usually if a job looks too good to be true, it is."

"Well, we've never let that stop us before," Sully said. "Why start now?"

Sam knew it was a fair point, but he was in no mood to say so out loud. He was happy to stand in sullen silence instead, looking off into the distance and wishing he could have another smoke. But he couldn't indulge even that simple temptation now. There were only four cigarettes left in the box, and those few would have to stretch until he could scrape together enough cash to buy more.

And Sam could help but wonder, for the thousandth time that day, if being in jail weren't a hell of a lot easier than being poor. At least in prison he'd always had something to smoke.

"Look," Sully said. "If you don't want in, I'm not going to put a gun to your head. But why don't you at least come with me to meet Carrow? Just hear him out. After that, you can decide what you want to do."

"But-" Sam began, but Sully cut him off.

"And I'll talk to your other clients and smooth things over for you. I think they can wait a week or two anyway. After all, it's not like we're dealing in livers and kidneys here."

Sam scratched his chin thoughtfully, still hesitating.

Three hundred million. And more where that came from.

"Listen," Sully said, his voice softening, "I know I'm asking a lot. But I wouldn't be here unless I really needed your help. And don't bother trying to say you're not interested. Anybody else would kill for a job like this. Literally. Forget about those dipshit clients and your stupid reputation for Christsakes. I know the only thing holding you back is your own damn pride." He crossed his arms, turning his expression stony. "Face it, you're gonna get kicked in the teeth at some point. So what? Why don't you just bite the bullet already and take my goddamn offer?"

Sully stopped there and waited, watching Sam's face.

For his part, Sam had already made up his mind. But rather than answer, he decided to keep his thoughts to himself, just for a few moments more. He got a biting sense of pleasure from letting Sully dangle, an opportunity which rarely came his way.

Sam sipped his beer slowly, mindless of the dull, bitter taste, until he'd swallowed every last drop. By the time he'd finished, Sully's face had gone as red as the Havana shirts he was so fond of wearing.

Sam sucked in a deep, full breath, and then let it out. "Well, Victor," he said. "I guess I'd better pack my bags."

* * *

So there it is, chapter one is done! Thanks for reading!

*Please leave a comment if you liked the story. All feedback is appreciated! If you're interested in reading some of my ramblings about this chapter, read on. If not, I'll see you next week!

* * *

Notes: I had a hell of a time with this chapter. I actually rewrote it twice, just trying to figure out the right amount of information to include. In the original version, Sam and Sully spent a lot more time discussing "the job". There were more factors involved, like a 15th-century journal and a shipwrecked explorer and mention of a magic lake, in addition to the murder and everything else. It was a LOT to fit into a conversation.

Going back and replaying the game (crushing difficulty, hell yeah), I got to see how the developers managed to intertwine both complex plot and character development throughout the story. I noticed that the first mention of Henry Avery's treasure doesn't come until the mid-point of chapter 2, well after a great deal of character development has taken place. Of course, most of us are familiar with the main characters by now, but the fact remains.

Once I realized that the focus of this chapter wasn't so much "the job", but the relationship between Sam and Sully, I also realized that I'd have to rewrite the whole thing. These two, as I hope you can tell, don't have quite the rapport that existed between Nate and Sully, or even Nate and Sam. It was difficult, but also fun, to figure out their dynamic.

Anywho, just my thoughts. Thanks for taking the time to read em. See you all soon.


	4. Chapter 2 - Delilah's

**Chapter 2**

 **Delilah's**

* * *

Two days later, Sam arrived at the front of Delilah's Tap House, sweaty from walking five miles but hopeful that he might end the night with a free steak dinner. He found Sully sitting on a stone bench by the front door, chewing on a cigar. And not his first of that evening, if the pile of ashes gathered at his feet was any indication.

Sam strolled into view with his hands in his pockets, trying to look innocent.

Sully spotted him and scowled. "Well, well. Look who finally decided to show up," he said. "About damn time. I was starting to think you'd gotten cold feet."

"Who me?" Sam laughed. "Nah, just...bad traffic, that's all."

No need to mention the real reason he was late. Sully probably wouldn't care to know that Sam had used all his cash to pay for a single night at a two-star motel room, leaving nothing left over for a cab ride. At least the walk uptown had been fairly pleasant, if long.

Sully grunted at him and jammed his stogie back between his teeth. Thankfully, he seemed too distracted to bother berating Sam further, his thoughts likely focused on the upcoming meeting. Sam was beginning to feel a bit anxious himself, truth be told. It was one thing to sit on a couch and talk about meeting with a suspicious client, but to actually see it through was another story.

"So, this is the place, huh?" Sam said. He rubbed his hands together and looked up at the painted wooden sign over the front door. Delilah's billed itself as an upscale restaurant and bar, though from the outside it looked more like a commercial steakhouse, complete with neon signage and rows of manicured shrubbery. For some unthinkable reason, Carrow had chosen the place as their meeting location. Sam had his doubts about the man's idea of a covert venue, but even so the smell wafting from the kitchen was enough to make his stomach groan.

"Well," he said stiffly, "What are we standing around for? Let's go get this over with."

Sully looked taken aback. "I just lit up."

"Are you serious?" Sam said. "Come on, Carrow could be in there waiting for us right now."

"So what? We're already running late, thanks to you. What's a few more minutes gonna hurt?" Sully closed his eyes and puffed contentedly on his cigar, appearing in no way ready to put it out.

Sam watched him with growing irritation. He wasn't sure if it was his nerves or his hunger that was making him impatient, or some noxious combination of the two. Regardless, Sully appeared completely unmoved. "Alright, fine," Sam yielded, shrugging both shoulders at once. "We'll wait."

"What's got you all strung up?" Sully said, and opened one eye to look at him.

Sam paused, unsure if he was being asked a serious question or not.

"It's nothing." He glanced up and down the street, making sure they were alone before adding in a harsh whisper, "except for the fact that neither of us has any idea who we're actually meeting with tonight. I don't know about you, but that little detail kinda puts me on edge."

"Ah, relax. What's the worst that could happen?" Sully said. "Look where we are. There's more witnesses just standing out here on the street than you'd find in a goddamn courtroom. This is hardly the location to stage an ambush."

"It's hardly the location to meet a client either," Sam said. "I just wish we'd been able to scope the place before we got here. Some blueprints wouldn't hurt either."

Sully shook his head. "Too late now," he concluded.

"Great. So, basically we're going in completely blind." Sam inhaled a shuddering breath and clenched his hands into white-knuckled fists. This whole situation, compounded with twelve hours of forced abstinence from nicotine, had left him feeling twitchy as a pinched nerve. "Don't see how anything could possibly go wrong."

Sully rolled his eyes. "You really gotta relax, kid. First rule of business: never let them see you sweat." He gestured to the bench he was sitting on with his empty hand. "Come here and take a load off. Have a cigarette before you jump out of your goddamn skin."

Sam didn't move. "I'm good, thanks."

"Suit yourself," Sully said. "I'm just saying, it's a nice night, and we're about to enjoy dinner at a halfway decent restaurant -"

"But that's the thing," Sam cut in. "The location. What kind of broker sets up a meeting at a third rate pub? If you could just consider for one second -"

"So it's a little bit weird, but what difference does it make?" Sully said. "Trust me, I've had some weird meet ups before, and this is nothing. Christ, when did you get to be such a stick in the mud anyway?"

When I ran out of money and ran out of options, Sam thought. He kept quiet, seeing no reason to reveal how much he was counting on this job. Some part of his mind was afraid to even admit it to himself, let alone to Sully.

"Did you at least bring a gun?" he asked.

Sully scoffed. "Of course. I'm may be old, but I'm not senile." He looked closely at Sam. "Did you?"

By way of an answer, Sam patted his left hip where a 9 mm pistol was holstered just above his belt. "Always. How do you think I sleep at night?"

"You're a man after my own heart," Sully said with a cynical smile.

Sam could barely manage a grim smirk in return. He fought the urge to reach under his jacket and touch the sidearm, just to reassure himself that it was there. If everything went as planned tonight, he wouldn't even need his gun. Experience said he probably would.

Just as Sam was starting to think his time might be better spent scoping the building, Sully finally finished his cigar. He dropped the butt on the ground and stepped on it with the toe of his well-worn shoe.

"Alright," he said. "How about we get this show on the road, seeing as you're so eager?"

Sam took another deep breath, exhaling slowly. Sullivan stood up with a groan and brushed ashes off his pants.

"Ready?" he asked.

"As I'll ever be."

Sully offered an encouraging nod, and then turned to lead the way into the waiting room.

Walking inside, Sam was momentarily overwhelmed by the smell of roasted meat and garlic, a powerful aroma that made both his eyes and his mouth water at once. He blinked, trying to take in his surroundings. The waiting room was sparse and dim, like a backdrop from some kind of grungy sci-fi flick, stocked with mismatched retro furniture in varying states of ware. The only light seemed to issue from a series of spherical chandeliers hanging above the room. It was gloomy as a cave inside, and about as warm.

The host was standing a few feet away, stacking menus behind a sleek metal podium. He turned and gave a drab smile that suggested he was anything but happy to see guests walk through the door. "Good evening, gentlemen. Welcome to Delilah's."

"Table for three please," Sully said, holding up the appropriate number of fingers. "I believe we have a reservation."

"Name?"

"Try...Sullivan."

The host crouched over the podium and leisurely rifled through some papers. "Yes, here it is," he said. " ? Table for two."

"Uh…no, actually," Sully lifted a hand to stall him. "That should be a three top like I said."

The host glanced once more at his papers, too fast to have actually read anything. "The reservation is for two, I'm afraid. If you would follow me, please."

With that he walked off into the dining room. Sully threw Sam a dubious glance over his shoulder, but Sam only shrugged.

The host led them through a bustling dining area, filled with the murmur of muttered conversations and the clatter of utensils on plates. For a weeknight, Sam noticed that the room was surprisingly full. Nearly every table was occupied by two to four guests, and most of them seemed fairly young. He swept the room as he walked, searching for anyone who appeared older than college age, but found surprisingly few.

Was this really where Carrow wanted to meet? From the way Sullivan had described him, Sam had assumed Edwin was more of a top-drawer kind of man. Delilah's had a bizarre kind of charm, but it seemed a bit pedestrian on the whole. Still, Sam tried not to jump to conclusions. Carrow might have a good reason for choosing this place, even if those reasons were far from evident.

For one thing, the food smelled fantastic.

Sam kept an eye out as they meandered through the large room, skirting the tables and sidestepping the harried waitstaff. He saw nothing that warranted suspicion, not even a shady loner camped at the bar. Still, he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling clutching at his gut. Something just didn't seem right here.

To Sam's surprise, the host did not seat them in the main dining area. He directed them instead through a set of double doors into a separate room with only a handful of tables and no other diners. It seemed like the kind of space reserved for private meetings or parties, or perhaps gatherings of a more illicit nature.

Sam frowned as he followed Sully through the doors. The uneasy feeling twisting his insides suddenly tripled in strength, making his heart beat faster and his palms sweat. His hand reflexively moved toward his left hip, brushing the handle of his pistol.

But there was nothing there. The room appeared to be completely empty.

The host set two menus on a small, square table by the wall, and then stood back with his hands clasped in front of him. "Here you are, gentlemen," he said. "Please make yourselves comfortable, and if you need anything, please do not hesitate to ask. Your waitress will be with you shortly."

Having said all that was required of him, he quickly left the room before either of his guests could sit down. Sam watched the door swing closed, not entirely convinced that it would stay that way. He almost expected an armed thug to jump out at any moment, yelling and brandishing a loaded shotgun. Strange enough, that sort of thing had happened to him before. More than once.

This time though, there was nothing. No thug. No shotgun. Only the soft melody of a trashy pop tune echoing from the overhead speakers.

"You gonna stand there all night?" Sully called. He was already seated at the table with menu in hand. "I mean, you can if you want. Just saying it's easier if you sit down."

Warily, Sam approached the table and took a seat. He continued to look around, making note of the two exits on either end of the room, just in case. As he settled into his chair, he caught himself fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve, and quickly dropped his hands onto his lap. He tried to take Sully's advice to appear calm, even though inwardly he felt like a rabbit hiding from a fox. He thought he felt a tickle of sweat beading on his forehead, and absently wiped it away.

"You catch any sign of Carrow out there?" Sam asked. He kept his eyes lowered, fixated on the arrangement of cheap silverware in front of him.

"Nah," Sully shook his head. "But I wasn't really looking. Too many people. Besides, it's been so long, I don't know if I'd recognize him."

Before he could think better of it, Sam commented, "He'd look like you wouldn't he? Old. Grey. Wrinkly from head to -"

"Alright, alright," Sully broke in. "Very funny, teasing the old-timer. You're no spring chicken yourself, don't forget." He picked up the list of specials and held it at arm's length, squinting at the small letters. "Ah, I can't read shit in this light. It's so goddamn dim in here, you'd think these clowns were behind on their electric bill or something."

"Yeah," Sam agreed.

"What does that say? Bordelaise Steak?" Sully peered at the menu and grumbled to himself under his breath. "You know, the last time I ate steak in Boston, it was so raw I swear I could still hear the damn cow mooing. I don't know what they're teaching these kids in culinary school nowadays, but if you can't cook a steak, you outta get out of the kitchen, that's just the simple truth. Maybe I'd be better off with chicken? Ah, who am I kidding, I hate fowl. Unless it's duck, which I doubt they serve in cheap joint like this…"

Sully continued to ramble on, but Sam was only half listening. He ran his thumb over his upper lip, staring at the double doors where they had entered. How long would they have to wait? Either Carrow, or his imposter, would have make a move, and soon. But what would it be? Surely he wouldn't just walk through the doors unannounced. After all this secrecy, Sam expected their "client" would try to make a more subtle debut at the very least.

After several seemingly infinite minutes of waiting, Sam started to get worried.

"Let me take another look at that email," he said. "The one Carrow sent last night."

"What for?" Sully grumbled. "I've already told you what it says."

"I just want to make sure we didn't miss something."

"Trust me, there's nothing to miss." Sully didn't look at him, preoccupied with feigning interest in the beverage menu. "He gave us a location and a time. That's it. We're supposed to sit here, have some drinks and maybe some calamari, and wait. This really ain't the hard part, kid."

"But what if we're...I don't know, in the wrong place?"

"I doubt it. There was a reservation under my name."

Sam scoffed quietly. "This might come as a surprise to you, Victor, but Sullivan isn't exactly an uncommon surname. Maybe some other made that reservation, and we just swooped in and took it for ourselves."

"Would you look at that," Sully said. "They've got a special on single-malt scotch, half-price. Must be my lucky day."

Taking the hint, Sam reluctantly dropped the subject. He opened his menu and tried to look engrossed in reading the lists of entrees. Realizing that he was bouncing his leg under the table, he stopped himself and shifted in his chair.

The door opened. Sam looked up, heart leaping.

It was only the waitress. Sam let out his held breath, forcing himself to relax with some difficulty. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this jittery during a job. Just need a cigarette, he told himself. That's all.

The waitress didn't seem to notice his agitation, as she walked directly up to the table, her short ponytail waving back and forth with each step like a happy dog's tail. Sam had to admit she was cute, with large eyes and trim frame, though obviously very young. Just looking at her fresh, round face Sam felt a pang of remorse for his own lost youth strike deep in his chest.

Enjoy it while you got it, sweetheart.

The waitress stopped in front of the table, balancing a tray with an amber bottle and two stout glasses on the palm of her hand. Sam had a sneaking suspicion that he already knew what was in that bottle, and it wasn't the kind of stuff that usually got left on the bottom shelf.

"Evening, boys," the girl said, grinning at them both. As she did her plump, dimpled cheeks rounded out on either side of her face, making her seem even more adorable than before. Sam couldn't help smiling back at her, mostly just on reflex.

Mostly.

The waitress produced two coasters from the top of the tray and set them on the table. Sam noticed her chipped, deep purple nail polish. Nail biter.

"How you two doing tonight?" she asked in a high, cheerful voice. She turned to Sam, locking him into a prolonged, strangely delightful stare.

"Better," he said smoothly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sully slowly shake his head.

The waitress giggled. "Alright! Well, I've got a little treat for you. Drinks on the house."

She took the pair of glasses off the tray and put them down on the coasters. Tucking the tray under her arm, she poured a few generous ounces of golden-brown liquid into each glass, just enough to float the ice cubes off the bottom.

"Single-malt scotch for you gentlemen," she said.

Sully's eyebrows rose. "Well if I'd known I was getting the VIP treatment tonight, I'd have worn my best shirt," he said.

The waitress giggled again. Sam thought to himself that he hadn't heard such an infectious laugh in his entire life. He felt better about their whole situation already, and he hadn't even touched his scotch yet.

The girl took their beverage orders and promised to return in a few minutes. Sam told her he couldn't wait, and she laughed again. He thought he felt Sully try to kick him under the table as she turned to leave, but it might have been his imagination.

Alone again, Sam sat back and lifted his menu. He didn't need to look up to know that Sully was starting holes into his head.

"Would you quit smiling like that?" Sully muttered. "It's goddamn creepy as hell."

"What?"

"Just try to say focused, would you?"

Sam clicked his tongue obstinately. "Alright," he said, drawing out the word. "You think this might be the signal we were supposed to wait for?"

Sully shrugged. "Could be. Could also be that someone around here is hoping the two of us are half as old as we look."

Charming as the thought was, Sam knew it was unlikely. Anyone who had ever known Sullivan for any length of time, even a few minutes, learned that his two favorite things in the world were Cuban cigars and scotch whiskey. Considering present company, Sam was hard pressed to think of a better signal than the one sitting on the table in front of him.

He picked up his glass and turned it, eyeing the contents. "Looks like regular scotch to me," he said. "What's it supposed to mean?"

"Maybe he just wants to make sure we're having a good time," Sully offered, and took a sip from his glass. He smacked his lips, seeming to be immensely pleased with the taste.

Sam held back, continuing to examine his own drink for clues, if there were any. There was nothing noteworthy in the glass, just liquor and slowly melting blocks of ice. Maybe the hint was in the brand, he thought. But he hadn't caught the name on the label, nor was he versed in any sort of brand trivia that might be useful. He could name a thousand miscellaneous facts about Victorian era pirates, but when it came to alcoholic beverages Sam knew about as much as the next guy. Probably less, come to think of it.

But there must be something, some trick he was missing.

Still pondering, Sam's eyes fell onto the pair of coasters left on the table. At first glance, they appeared to be of the usual disposable variety: plain cardstock squares.

But there was something odd about the design on top of his coaster that held Sam's attention. For one thing, the pattern looked hand-drawn, almost as if someone had sketched it out in haste with a permanent marker.

Sam picked up his coaster and looked at it up close. The drawing on the surface was curiously simple: a series of squares and rectangles of various sizes arranged in the blank space. Curiously, none of the squares were overlapping. A few of them were drawn side by side, but their edges were merely close, not touching.

He turned the coaster so that he could examine the drawing from every angle. He allowed himself a sip of scotch while he thought, enjoying the flash of fire running down his throat, numbing the prickling unease in his stomach. He sipped again. Easier to think like this.

The designs on both his and Sully's coasters appeared similar, he noticed, but they weren't exactly the same. The most obvious difference was that Sully's picture bore a large, bright red "X" on one corner, while Sam's did not. That was significant. Obviously. Sam lowered his glass. A vague thought, like a fleeting shadow, darted across his mind.

In an odd sort of way, that drawing almost looked like…

"Victor, take a look at this," Sam said. He put the coaster down on the table next to its partner. "What does that look like to you?"

Sully leaned in. "Uh...a square?"

"No, I mean what's on top. The pattern."

"I don't know," Sully said. "Just looks like a bunch of lines. What are you getting at, kid?"

Sam allowed himself a small, playful smirk. "It's a _map."_

He twisted each coaster around and then pushed them together so that their edges touched. Like pieces of a rudimentary puzzle, the two designs lined up perfectly, creating a slightly larger and more detailed picture when seen together.

"You clever bastard," Sully said, impressed. "How'd you know to look for that? Do you Drakes just go around searching for this kind of wacky shit all the time?"

Sam laughed. "You might be surprised."

"Well, at least now I know you're more than just a pretty face." Sully said, tilting his glass as if in a toast. "But here's the next question: what's it a map of?"

Sam already knew. To him, the answer was as obvious as a full moon on a clear night. He pointed to one of the squares on his coaster, still grinning.

"It a map of _this_ room," he explained. "Look. That square is our table, see? There's the windows, the doors, and the other tables around us."

"Well I'll be damned," Sully said with a slow grin. "And let me guess. 'X' marks the spot?" He jabbed a finger at the red letter on the corner of the map.

Sam nodded and looked up toward the other side of the room. "There's something over there Carrow wants us to see."

That space, though clearly marked on the map, appeared just the same to Sam as the rest of the room. There was a single, small table, a pair of chairs, and a photograph mounted on the wall for decoration. Nothing else. A bright red "X" painted on the floor was probably too much to hope for.

"Well," Sully said, "why don't we go and see what's in store?"

He got up and crossed the room, taking his coaster and his scotch with him. Sam followed, but detoured to the double doors and glanced inconspicuously out into the hallway. He didn't see anyone coming, at least for now. Satisfied, he joined Sully in front of the small table and immediately began to search it.

"What are you hiding?" he muttered, running his hand along the rough plywood skirt. His fingers grazed over crooked nails and frayed splinters, but that was all. Nothing there. "Damn," he hissed.

Sully turned over one of the chairs, but found similar results. He cursed and pulled the coaster out of his pocket to check a second time. "This is definitely the right spot."

"Well keep looking," Sam told him. He swept his hand over the wall, feeling for bulges or weaknesses, when his eyes fell on the small framed photograph nailed into the plaster. His eyes narrowed. "What do you bet…"

He reached behind the frame, searching with the tips of his fingers.

There! A cold thrill ran up the back of his neck as he pulled a small, folded piece of paper from the edge of the frame. He looked at Sully and smirked, waving the little note.

"Jackpot," Sam said.

Sully huffed, unenthused. "What is it? A note?"

Sam unfolded the slip of paper, looking down to read. His grin faded. Written there in scribbled black ink was a single, cryptic word:

 _Methuselah_

He flipped the paper over, looking for something more, but the rest was blank. Sam shook his head, reading the word over and over, but it was useless. Whatever the message was, it meant nothing to him.

"Methuselah?" he said. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Sully's eyes suddenly widened as if in shock. "Let me see that," he said, edging close to see over Sam's shoulder.

Sam gave him the paper. "Mean something to you?"

Instead of answering, Sully looked down at the solitary word, smiling to himself, the way a person might gaze at an old forgotten photograph he'd found in the attic. "What do you know," he said.

"What? You know what it means?" Sam asked. He couldn't control the eager edge in his voice, and his words came out louder than he would have liked. "Come on, Victor, don't just leave me in suspense here," he added.

Sully met his eyes, and there was something sharp, something impish, in his stare. "What's this? For once I'm the one who knows the answer to something, and you _don't?_ " He chuckled while Sam rolled his eyes. "Feels pretty damn good, if I do say so myself."

"Would you just spit it out already?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Sully said. "Methuselah. Famous, legendary old guy. Supposedly he lived to be –"

"Nine hundred sixty-nine," Sam finished. "Oldest man alive. Yeah, I know the story. But what is that supposed to tell us?"

"Kid," Sully said, patting Sam's shoulder, "I've kept that secret for fifty years. You think I'm just gonna let the cat out of bag now?"

Sam stared at him, uncomprehending, for a long, exceedingly sluggish moment. And then realization dawned on him, sudden and clear. He sighed.

"It's a code-word," Sam said. "Between you and Carrow. Isn't it?"

Sully snorted, pocketing the scrap of paper. "Someday, on my deathbed, maybe I'll consider letting you in on the secret. Maybe take me on a few more dates first and we'll see."

"Cute," Sam said.

"Well, at least we know Carrow was here," Sully told him.

"But he's not now." Sam folded his arms over his chest. "So, where'd he go?"

Sully gave a shrug, but Sam was no longer paying attention to him. He turned back to the photograph on the wall, the same one which had hidden the note, and studied it again. It was a picture of a large, nondescript building, and not even a very attractive one, with its plain brick walls and unadorned windows . Such a strange picture to hang in a restaurant...

"I know where he is," Sam said.

"What?"

Sam pointed to the photograph. "Randolph Street and Harrison. That's the abandoned warehouse right off the interstate."

Sully glanced at the picture, and then back at Sam, frowning. "How the hell do you know that?"

"Don't you know? It's where all the cool kids go to…do whatever kids do for fun these days," Sam said mockingly. "Plus, I might've done a few odd jobs there, once or twice. Trust me, this time of night, the whole place is completely deserted."

"And you think Carrow went there?" Sully said. "What for?"

Sam threw up his hands. "How do I know? He's changing the location. It's not exactly a _good_ sign."

"Damn," Sully said, but he didn't offer argument. He looked forlornly at the remainder of his scotch, swirling the glistening amber liquid around in the glass. He threw back his head and finished it off in one gulp. "Guess we're not getting dinner tonight after all."

* * *

*Notes: Thanks for reading! I have to say, these chapters are getting longer and longer. I hope they're not too boring for you all. I've written and rewritten these first few chapters, trying to get the pacing just right, but at some point, one obviously must move on. I've got to stop myself from going back and revising every little detail, otherwise I'll never finish this thing.

I always like to hear your thoughts in the comments, so don't forget to leave a review!

I will, hopefully, see you all next week with another chapter!


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